The  Stranger  at  The  Gate 


BY  JOHN  G.  NEIHARDT 
Poetry 

THE  STRANGER  AT  THE  GATE 
A  BUNDLE  OF    MYRRH 
MAN-SONG 

Fiction 
LIFE'S  LURE 

THE  DAWN-BUILDER 
THE  LONESOME  TRAIL 

Miscellaneous 

THE  RIVER  AND  I 


The  Stranger 
At  The  Gate 


by 

John  G.  Neihardt 


NEW  YORK 

MITCHELL  KENNERLEY 
MCMXII 


Copyright,  IQI2 
by  John  G.  Neihardt 


304260 


CONTENTS 

Page 

THE  WEAVERS  i 

THE  STORY  4 

THE  NEWS  8 

IN  THE  NIGHT  10 

BREAK  OF  DAY  13 

DAWN  SONG  16 

END  OF  SUMMER  18 

VISION  20 

TRIUMPH  23 

HERITAGE  24 

LULLABY  26 

THE  POET'S  TOWN  29 

PRAIRIE  STORM  RUNE  41 

THE  GHOSTLY  BROTHER  49 

THE  POET'S  ADVICE  52 

MORNING  GLORIES  55 

THE  LYRIC  57 

GLAUCUS  58 

MONEY  63 

THE  RED  WIND  COMES  64 

CRY  OF  THE  PEOPLE  67 


The  Stranger  At  the  Gate 


i 

THE  WEAVERS 

SUNS    flash,   stars   drift, 
Comes  and   goes  the  moon 
Ever  through  the  wide  miles 
Corn  fields  croon 
Patiently,  hopefully, 
A  low,  slow  tune. 

Lovingly,  longingly, 
Labors  without  rest 
Every  happy  cornstalk, 
Weaving  at  its  breast 
Such  a  cozy  cradle 
For  the  coming  guest. 

In  the  flowing  pastures, 
Where  the  cattle  feed, 
Such  a  hidden  love-storm, 
Dying  into  seed — 
Blue  grass,  slough  grass, 
Wild  flower,  weed! 
i 


The  Stranger  at  the  Gate 


Mark  the  downy  flower-coats 
In  the  hollyhocks! 
Hark,   the  cooing  Wheat-Soul 
Weaving  for  her  flocks! 
Croon  time,  June  time, 
Moon  of  baby  frocks! 

Rocking  by  the  window, 
Wrapt  in  visionings, 
Lo,  the  gentle  mother 
Sews  and  sings, 
Shaping  to  a  low  song 
Wee,  soft  things! 

Patiently,  hopefully, 

Early,  late, 

How  the  wizard  fingers 

Weave  with  Fate 

For  the  naked  youngling 

Crying  at  the  Gate! 

Sound,  sight,  day,  night 
Fade,  flee  thence; 
Vanished  is  the  brief,  hard 
World  of  sense: 
Hark!     Is  it  the  plump  grape 
Crooning  from  the  fence? 

Droning  of  the  surf  where 
Far  seas  boom? 


John  G.  Neihardt 


Chanting  of  the  weird  stars 
Big  with  Doom? 
Humming  of  the  god-flung 
Shuttles  of  a  loom? 

O'er  the  brooding  Summer 
A  green  hush  clings, 
Save  the  sound  of  weaving 
Wee,  soft  things: 
Everywhere  a  mother 
Weaves  and  sings. 


The  Stranger  at  the  Gate 


II 
THE  STORY 

VT  EARLY  thrilled  the  plum  tree 
•••        With  the  mother-mood ; 
Every  June  the  rose  stock 
Bore  her  wonder-child : 
Every  year  the  wheatlands 
Reared  a  golden  brood: 
World  of  praying  Rachels, 
Heard  and  reconciled ! 

"  Poet,"  said  the  plum  tree's 

Singing  white  and  green, 

"  What  avails  your  mooning, 

Can  you  fashion  plums?  " 

"  Dreamer,"  crooned  the  wheatland's 

Rippling  vocal  sheen, 

"  See  my  golden  children 

Marching  as  with  drums!  " 

"  By  a  god  begotten," 
Hymned  the  sunning  vine, 
"  In  my  lyric  children 
Purple  music  flows!  " 
"  Singer,"  breathed  the  rose  bush, 
"Are  they  not  divine? 
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John   G.  Neihardt 


Have  you  any  daughters 
Mighty  as  a  rose?  " 

Happy,  happy  mothers! 
Cruel,  cruel  words! 
Mine  are  ghostly  children, 
Haunting  all  the  ways; 
Latent  in  the  plum  bloom, 
Calling  through   the  birds, 
Romping  with  the  wheat  brood 
In  their  shadow-plays! 

Gotten  out  of  star-glint, 
Mothered  of  the  Moon; 
Nurtured  with  the  rose  scent, 
Wild,  elusive  throng! 
Something  of  the  vine's  dream 
Crept  into  a  tune; 
Something  of  the  wheat-drone 
Echoed  in  a  song. 

Once  again  the  white  fires 
Smoked  among  the  plums; 
Once  again  the  wo  rid- joy 
Burst  the  crimson  bud ; 
Golden  bannered  wheat  broods 
Marched  to  fairy  drums; 
Once  again  the  vineyard 
Felt  the  Bacchic  blood. 
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The  Stranger  at  the  Gate 


"  Lo,  he  comes — the  dreamer — " 

Crooned  the  whitened  boughs, 

"  Quick  with  vernal  love-fires — 

Oh,  at  last,  he  knows! 

See  the  bursting  plum  bloom 

There  above  his  brows!  " 

"  Boaster!  "  breathed  the  rose  bush, 

"'Tis  a  budding  rose!" 

Droned  the  glinting  acres, 
"  In  his  soul,  mayhap, 
Something  like  a  wheat-dream 
Quickens  into  shape!  " 
Sang  the  sunning  vineyard, 
"  Lo,  the  lyric  sap 
Sets  his  heart  a-throbbing 
Like  a  purple  grape !  " 

Mother  of  the  wheatlands, 
Mother  of  the  plums, 
Mother  of  the  vineyard — 
All  that  loves  and  grows — 
Such  a  living  glory 
To  the  dreamer  comes, 
Mystic  as  a  wheat-song, 
Mighty  as  a  rose! 

Star- glint,   moon-glow, 
Gathered  in  a  mesh! 
Spring-hope,  white  fire 
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John   G.  Neihardt 


By  a  kiss  beguiled! 
Something  of  the  world-joy 
Dreaming  into  flesh! 
Bird-song,  vine-thrill 
Quickened  to  a  child! 


The  Stranger  at  the  Gate 


III 

THE  NEWS 

T    ITTLE    Breezes,    lurking    in    the    green-roofed 

•"—'     covers, 

Where    the    dappled    gloaming    keeps    the    cool    night 

dews, 

Up,  and  waft  the  wonder  of  it  unto  countless  lovers! 
Set  the  tiger  lily  bells  a-tolling  out  the  news! 

Down  the  eager  rivers  make  the  glory  of  the  story  roll ! 
Waken  joyful  shivers  in  the  green  gold  hush! 
Set  it  to  the  warble  of  the  early  morning  oriole! 
Fill  it  with  the  tender,  kissing  rapture  of  the  thrush! 

Take  a  little  sorrow  from  the  night  rain  pattering, 
Drowning  in  a  black  flood  stars  and  moon ; 
Take  a  little  terror  from  the  zigzag,  shattering, 
Blue  sword-flash  of  a  storm-struck  noon ! 

Breathing  through  the  green-aisled  orchard  chapels, 
Learn  the  holy  music  of  the  world-old  dream ; 
Borrow   from   the   still   scarlet  singing  of   the  apples; 
Weave  it  in  the  weird  tale's  gloom  and  gleam! 

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John  G.  Neihardt 


Hasten  with  the  woven  music,  make  the  Summer 
lyrical, 

Sweet  as  with  the  odors  of  a  southeast  rain ! 

Set  the  corn  a-chatter  o'er  the  glad,  impending  mir 
acle! 

A  little  Stranger  whimpers  at  the  Gate  of  Pain ! 


The  Stranger  at  the  Gate 


IV 
IN  THE  NIGHT 

the  steep  cloud-crags 
The  marching  Day  went  down- 
Bickering  spears  and  flags, 
Slant  in  a  wind  of  Doom! 
Blear  in  the  huddled  shadows 
Glimmer  the  lights  of  the  town ; 
Black  pools  mottle  the  meadows, 
Swamped  in  a  purple  gloom. 

Is  it  the  night  wind  sobbing 
Over  the  wheat  in  head? 
Is  it  the  world-heart  throbbing, 
Sad  with  the  coming  years? 
Is  it  the  lifeward  creeping 
Ghosts  of  the  myriad  dead, 
Livid  with  wounds  and  weeping 
Wild,  uncleansing  tears? 

'Twas  not  a  lone  loon  calling 
There  in  the  darkling  sedge, 
Still  as  the  prone  moon's  falling 
Where  in  the  gloom  it  slinks! 
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John  G.  Neihardt 


Hark  to  the  low  intoning 

There  at  the  hushed  grove's  edge — 

Is  it  the  pitiless,  moaning 

Voice  of  the  timeless  Sphinx? 

Woven  of  dusk  and  quiet, 
Winged  with  the  dim  starlight, 
Hideous  dream-sounds  riot, 
Couple  and  breed  and  grow; 
Big  with  a  dread  to-morrow, 
Flooding  the  hollow  night 
With  more  than  a  Thracian  sorrow, 
More  than  a  Theban  woe! 

Dupe  of  a  lying  pleasure, 
Dying  slave  of  desire! 
Dreading  the  swift  erasure, 
The  swoop  of  the  grisly  Jinn, 
Lof  you  have  trammeled  with  dust 
A  spark  of  the  slumbering  Fire, 
Given  it  nerves  for  lust 
And  feet  for  the  shards  of  sin! 

Woe  to  the  dreamer  waking, 
When    the   Dream    shall    stalk    before    him, 
With  terrible  thirsts  for  slaking 
And  hungers  mad  to  be  fed! 
Oh,  he  shall  sicken  of  giving, 
Cursing  the  mother  that  bore  him — 
Earth,  so  lean  for  the  living, 
Earth,  so  fat  with  the  dead! 
II 


The  Stranger  at  the  Gate 


Cease,  O  sounds  that  smother! 
Peace,  mysterious  Flouter! 
Lo,  where  the  sacred  mother 
Sleeps  in  her  starry  bed, 
Dreams  of  the  blessed  Comer, 
A  white  awe  flung  about  her, 
Wrapped  in  the  hopeful  Summer, 
The  starlight  round  her  head! 


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John  G.  Neihardt 


V 
BREAK  OF  DAY 

SILENT  are  the  green  looms 
And  the  weavers  sleep, 
Nestled  in  the  piled  glooms, 
Deep  on  deep. 

Gaunt,  grim  trees  stand, 
Etched  on  space, 
Like  a  mirrored  woodland 
On  a  purple  vase. 

Faithful  in  the  dun  hour, 
Like  a  praying  priest, 
Eagerly  the  sunflower 
Scans  the  East. 

Corn  rows,  far-hurled, 
Mist-enthralled, 
Vanish  in  a  star  world, 
Sapphire-walled. 

Leaning  out  of  dim  space 
Over  field  and  town, 
Some  hushed  mother  face 
Peers,  bends  down; 
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The  Stranger  at  the  Gate 


Veiled  in  gleam-blurs, 
Starry  locked, 

Brooding  o'er  the  dreamers 
Dawn  ward  rocked. 

Is  a  spirit  walking? 
On  a  sudden  seem 
All  the  sleepers  talking 
In  a  broken  dream! 

All  along  the  corn  rows, 
O'er  the  glinting  dews, 
Hark!     A  muffled  horn  blows 
Some  wild  news! 

Listen !     From  a  plum-close, 
Like  a  troubled  soul, 
Tremulous  a  voice  goes — 
'Tis  the  oriole! 

Star-lorn,  staring, 
The  East  goes  white ! 
Is  a  Terror  faring 
Up  the  steep  of  night? 

Boldly,  gladly, 
Through  the  paling  hush, 
Wildly,  madly, 
Cries  the  thrush! 


John   G.  Neihardt 


Tumbled  are  the  piled  glooms 
And  the  weavers  stir : 
Once  again  the  wild  looms 
Drone  and  whir. 

Glowing  through  the  gray  rack 
Breaks  the  Day — 
Like  a  burning  haystack 
Twenty  farms  away! 


The  Stranger  at  the  Gate 


VI 
DAWN  SONG 

of   the  blue   steeps  and   the  hollows 

under! 

Day-Flinger,   Hope-Singer,  crowned  with  awful  hair! 
Battle  Lord  with  burning  sword  to  cleave  the  gloom 

asunder ! 
Plunger    through    the    eyries    of    the    eagles    of    the 

Thunder! 
Stroller  up  the  flame-arched  air! 

All-Beholder,  very  swift  and  tireless  your  pace  is! 
Now   you   snuff   the   guttered   moon    above   the    gray 

abyss, 
Moaning    with    the    sagging    tide    in    shipless    ocean 

spaces ; 
Now   you    gladden    windless   hollows    thronged    with 

daisy  faces; 
Now  the  corn  salutes  the  Morn  that  sought  Persepolis! 

Searcher  of  the  ocean  and  the  islands  and  the  straits, 
The  mountains  and  the  rivers  and  the  deserts  and  the 

dunes, 

Saw  you  any  little  spirit  foundling  of  the  Fates, 
Groping  at  the  world-wall  for  the  narrow  gates 
Guarded  by  the  nine  big  moons? 

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John  G.  Neihardt 


Numberless  and  endlessly  the  living  spirit  tide  rolls, 
Like  a  serried  ocean  on  a  pleasant  island  hurled ! 
Sun-lured,  rain-wooed,  color-haunted  wild  souls, 
Trooping  with  the  love- thralled,  mother-seeking  child 

souls, 
Throng  upon  the  good  green  world! 

Surely  you  have  seen  it  in  your  wide  sky-going — 
An  eager  little  comrade  of  the  spirits  of  the  wheat ; 
All  the  hymning  forests  and  the  melody  of  growing, 
All  the  ocean  thunderings  and  all  the  rivers  flowing, 
Silenced  by  the  music  of  its  feet! 


The  Stranger  at  the  Gate 


VII 
END  OF  SUMMER 

PURPLE  o'er  the  tree  tops 
Wild  grapes  sprawl ; 
In  the  golden  silence 
Few  birds  call; 
Heavy  laden  Summer 
Ripens  toward  the  Fall. 


Weary  with  the  seed  pods 

Droop  the  hollyhocks; 

Up  and  down  the  wide  miles, 

Corn  in  shocks; 

Silent  is  the  Wheat  Mother, 

And  her  merry  flocks 


Go  no  more  a-marching 
Unto  fairy  drums. 
Hark!     Is  it  the  footfall 
Of  the  One  who  comes? 
Silence — save  the  dropping 
Of  the  purple  plums! 
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John   G.  Neihardt 


Patient,  stricken  Summer 
Feels  the  Odic  Fires, 
Awful  in  her  ripe  domes, 
Mystic  in  her  spires. 
In  a  holy  sadness 
Fruit  the  Spring  desires. 

Last  of  all  the  awe-moons, 

Three  times  three, 

Glimmers  down  the  sun  track 

Slenderly — 

Omen  of  the  Wonder 

Soon  to  be. 

Does  the  darkness  listen 
For  a  shout  of  Doom  ? 
Hist!     Was  it  a  thin  voice 
Crying  from  a  womb? 
Silence — save  a  dry  leaf's 
Whisper  down  the  gloom. 


The  Stranger  at  the  Gate 


VIII 
VISION 

SOON  shall  you  come  as  the  dawn  from  the  dumb 
abysm  of  night, 
Traveler  birthward,    Hastener  earthward   out  of  the 

gloom ! 
Soon  shall  you  rest  on  a  soft  white  breast  from  the 

measureless  mid-world  flight; 

Waken  in  fear  at  the  miracle,  light,  in  the  pain-hushed 
room. 

Lovingly  fondled,  fearfully  guarded  by  hands  that  are 

tender, 
Frail  shall  you  seem  as  a  dream  that  must  fail  in  the 

swirl  of  the  morrow: 

Oh,  but  the  vast,  immemorial  past  of  ineffable  splendor, 
Forfeited  soon  in  the  pangful  surrender  to  Sense  and 

to  Sorrow! 

Who  shall   unravel   your   tangle   of   travel,   uncurtain 

your  history? 
Have  you  not  run  with   the  sun-gladdened  feet  of  a 

thaw? 

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John  G.  Neihardt 


Lurked  as  a  thrill  in  the  will  of  the  primal  sea-mystery, 
The  drift  of  the  cloud  and  the  lift  of  the  moon  for  a 
law? 

Lost  is  the  tale  of  the  gulfs  you  have  crossed  and  the 
veils  you  have  lifted : 

In  many  a  tongue  have  been  wrung  from  you  outcries 
of  pain: 

You  have  leaped  with  the  lightning  from  thunder- 
heads,  hurricane-rifted, 

And  breathed  in  the  whispering  rain! 

Latent  in  juices  the  April  sun  looses  from  capture, 
Have  you  not  blown  in  the  lily  and  grown  in  the  weed  ? 
Burned  with  the  flame  of  the  vernal  erotical  rapture, 
And  yearned  with  the  passion  for  seed? 

Poured  on  the  deeps  from  the  steeps  of  the  sky  as  a 

chalice, 
Flung  through  the  loom  that  is  shuttled  by  tempests  at 

play, 

Myriad  the  forms  you  have  taken  for  hovel  or  palace — 
Broken  and  cast  them  away! 

You  who  shall  cling  to  a  love  that  is  fearful  and  pities, 

Titans  of  flame  were  your  comrades  to  blight  and  con 
sume! 

Have  you  not  roared  over  song-hallowed,  sword- 
stricken  cities, 

And  fled  in  the  smoke  of  their  doom? 
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The  Stranger  at  the  Gate 


For,  ancient  and  new,  you  are  flame,  you  are  dust,  you 

are  spirit  and  dew, 
Swirled  into  flesh,  and  the  wrinds  of  the  world  are  your 

breath ! 
The  song  of  the  thrush  in  the  hush  of  the  dawn  is  not 

younger  than  you — 
And  yet  you  are  older  than  Death! 


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John  G.  Neihardt 


IX 
TRIUMPH 

SEE  how  the  blue-girt  hills  are  spread 
With  regal  cloth  of  gold ; 
How,  panoplied  in  haughty  red, 
The  frosted  maples  stand; 
The  golden  rod,  with  torch  alight, 
Makes  glory  up  the  wold — 
As  though  a  monarch's  bannered  might 
Were  marching  up  the  land! 

Now  should  ecstatic  bugles  fret 

The  hush,  and  drums  should  roll; 

The  shawms  of  all  the  breezes  set 

The  scarlet  leaves  a-dance ! 

And  now  should  flash  in  vatic  rhyme 

The  battles  of  the  Soul — 

To  welcome  to  the  realm  of  Time 

The  Vanquisher  of  Chance! 

For,  though  there  rolls  no  gilded  car 
That  spurns  the  shaken  earth, 
And  shout  no  captains,  flinging  far 
The  law  to  parlous  spears; 
With  throbbing  hearts  for  smitten  drums, 
Up  through  the  Gates  of  Birth — 
The  Victor  comes !     The  Victor  comes ! 
To  claim  the  ripened  years! 
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The  Stranger  at  the  Gate 


X 

HERITAGE 

,  there  are  those,  a  sordid  clan, 
With  pride  in  gaud  and  faith  in  gold, 

Who  prize  the  sacred  soul  of  man 

For  what  his  hands  have  sold. 

And  these  shall  deem  thee  humbly  bred: 
They  shall  not  hear,  they  shall  not  see 
The  kings  among  the  lordly  dead 
Who  walk  and  talk  with  thee! 

A  tattered  cloak  may  be  thy  dole 
And  thine  the  roof  that  Jesus  had: 
The  broidered  garment  of  the  soul 
Shall  keep  thee  purple-clad ! 

The  blood  of  men  hath  dyed  its  brede, 
And  it  was  wrought  by  holy  seers 
With  sombre  dream  and  golden  deed 
And  pearled  with  women's  tears. 

With  Eld  thy  chain  of  days  is  one: 
The  seas  are  still  Homeric  seas; 
Thy  sky  shall  glow  with  Pindar's  sun, 
The  stars  of  Socrates! 
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John  G.  Neihardt 


Unaged  the  ancient  tide  shall  surge, 
The  old  Spring  burn  along  the  bough: 
For  thee,  the  new  and  old  converge 
In  one  eternal   Now! 

I  give  thy  feet  the  hopeful  sod, 

Thy  mouth,  the  priceless  boon  of  breath ; 

The  glory  of  the  search  for  God 

Be  thine  in  life  and  death! 

Unto  thy  flesh,  the  soothing  dust; 
Thy  soul,  the  gift  of  being  free: 
The  torch  my  fathers  gave  in  trust, 
Thy  father  gives  to  thee! 


The  Stranger  at  the  Gate 


XI 
LLLLABY 

SUN-FLOOD,  moon-gleam 
Ebb  and  flow; 
Twinkle-footed  star  flocks 
Come  and  go: 
Eager  little  Stranger, 
Sleep  and  grow! 

Yearning  in  the  moon-lift 
Surge  the  seas; 
Southering,  the  sun-lured 
Gray  goose  flees: 
Eager  with  the  same  urge, 
You  and  these! 

Canopied  in  splendor — 
Red,  gold,  blue — 
With  the  tender  Autumn 
Cooing  through ; 
Oh,  the  mighty  cradle 
Rocking  you! 


26 


THE  POET'S  TOWN 


John  G.  Neihardt 


THE  POET'S  TOWN 
I 

*l\/riD  glad  green  miles  of  tillage 

-L  *  A     And  fields  where  cattle  graze, 
A  prosy  little  village, 
You  drowse  away  the  days. 

And  yet — a  wakeful  glory 
Clings  round  you  as  you  doze; 
One  living  lyric  story 
Makes  music  of  your  prose. 

Here  once,  returning  never, 
The  feet  of  song  have  trod ; 
And  flashed — Oh,  once  forever! — 
The  singing  Flame  of  God. 

II 

These  were  his  fields  Elysian: 
With  mystic  eyes  he  saw 
The  sowers  planting  vision, 
The  reapers  gleaning  awe. 

Serfs  to  a  sordid  duty, 
He  saw  them  with  his  heart, 
Priests  of  the  Ultimate  Beauty, 
Feeding  the   flame  of  art. 
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The  Stranger  at  the  Gate 


The  weird,  untempled  Makers 
Pulsed  in  the  things  he  saw; 
The  wheat  through  its  virile  acres 
Billowed  the  Song  of  Law. 

The  epic  roll  of  the  furrow 

Flung  from  the  writing  plow, 

The  dactyl  phrase  of  the  green-rowed  maize 

Measured  the  music  of  Now. 

Ill 

Sipper  of  ancient  flagons, 
Often  the  lonesome  boy 
Saw  in  the  farmers'  wagons 
The  chariots  hurled  at  Troy. 

Trundling  in  dust  and  thunder 
They  rumbled  up  and  down, 
Laden  with  princely  plunder, 
Loot  of  the  tragic  Town. 

And  once  when  the  rich  man's  daughter 
Smiled  on  the  boy  at  play, 
Sword-storms,  giddy  with  slaughter, 
Swept  back  the  ancient  day! 

War  steeds  shrieked  in  the  quiet, 
Far  and  hoarse  were  the  cries; 
And  Oh,  through  the  din  and  the  riot, 
The  music  of  Helen's  eyes! 

30 


John   G.  Neihardt 


Stabbed  with  the  olden  Sorrow, 

He  slunk  away  from  the  play, 

For  the  Past  and  the  vast  To-morrow 

Were  wedded  in  his  To-day. 

IV 

Rich  with  the  dreamer's  pillage, 
An  idle  and  worthless  lad, 
Least  in  a  prosy  village, 
And  prince  in  Allahabad; 

Lover  of  golden  apples, 
Munching  a  daily  crust; 
Haunter  of  dream-built  chapels, 
Worshipping  in  the  dust; 

Dull  to  the  worldly  duty, 
Less  to  the  town  he  grew, 
And  more  to  the  God  of  Beauty 
Than  even  the  grocer  knew! 


Corn  for  the  buyers,  and  cattle — 
But  what  could  the  dreamer  sell? 
Echoes  of  cloudy  battle? 
Music  from  heaven  and  hell? 

Spices  and  bales  of  plunder, 
Argosied  over  the  sea? 
Tapestry  woven  of  wonder, 
And  myrrh  from  Araby? 

31 


The  Stranger  at  the  Gate 


None  of  your  dream-stuffs,  Fellow, 

Looter  of  Samarcand ! 

Gold  is  heavy  and  yellow, 

And  value  is  weighed  in  the  hand! 

VI 

And  yet,  when  the  years  had  humbled 
The  kings  in  the  Realm  of  the  Boy, 
Song-built  bastions  crumbled, 
Ash-heaps  smothering  Troy; 

Thirsting  for  shattered  flagons, 
Quaffing  a  brackish  cup, 
With  all  of  his  chariots,  wagons — 
He  never  could  quite  grow  up. 

The  debt  to  the  ogre,  To-morrow, 
He  never  could  comprehend: 
Why  should  the  borrowers  borrow? 
Why  should  the  lenders  lend? 

Never  an  oak  tree  borrowed, 
But  took  for  its  needs — and  gave. 
Never  an  oak  tree  sorrowed; 
Debt  was  the  mark  of  the  slave. 

Grass  in  the  priceless  weather 
Sucked  from  the  paps  of  the  Earth, 
And  the  hills  that  were  lean  it  fleshed  with  its  green — 
Oh,  what  is  a  lesson  worth? 
32 


John   G.  Neihardt 


But  still  did  the  buyers  barter 
And  the  sellers  squint  at  the  scales; 
And  price  was  the  stake  of  the  martyr, 
And  cost  was  the  lock  of  the  jails. 

VII 

Windflowers  herald  the  Maytide, 
Rendering  worth  for  worth; 
Ragweeds  gladden  the  wayside, 
Biting  the  dugs  of  the  Earth; 

Violets,  scattering  glories, 

Feed  from  the  dewy  gem: 

But  dreamers  are  fed  by  the  living  and  dead- 

And  what  is  the  gift  from  them? 

VIII 

Never  a  stalk  of  the  Summer 
Dreams  of  its  mission  and  doom: 
Only  to  hasten  the  Comer — 
Martyrdom  unto  the  Bloom. 

Ever  the  Mighty  Chooser 
Plucks  when  the  fruit  is  ripe, 
Scorning  the  mass  and  letting  it  pass, 
Keen  for  the  cryptic  type. 

Greece  in  her  growing  season 

Troubled  the  lands  and  seas, 

Plotted  and  fought  and  suffered  and  wrought- 

Building  a  Sophocles! 

33 


The  Stranger  at  the  Gate 


Only  a  faultless  temple 

Stands  for  the  vassal's  groan; 

The  harlot's  strife  and  the  faith  of  the  wife 

Blend  in  a  graven  stone. 

Ne'er  do  the  stern  gods  cherish 
The  hope  of  the  million  lives; 
Always  the  Fact  shall  perish 
And  only  the  Truth  survives. 

Gardens  of  roses  wither, 

Shaping  the  perfect  rose: 

And  the  poet's  song  shall  live  for  the  long, 

Dumb,  aching  years  of  prose. 

IX 

King  of  a  Realm  of  Magic, 
He  was  the  fool  of  the  town, 
Hiding  the  ache  of  the  tragic 
Under  the  grin  of  the  clown. 

Worn  with  the  vain  endeavor 
To  fit  in  the  sordid  plan; 
Doomed  to  be  poet  forever, 
He  longed  to  be  only  a  man ; 

To  be  freed  from  the  god's  enthralling, 
Back  with  the  reeds  of  the  stream; 
Deaf  to  the  Vision  calling, 
And  dead  to  the  lash  of  the  Dream. 

34 


John  G.  Neihardt 


X 

But  still  did  the  Mighty  Makers 
Stir  in  the  common  sod; 
The  corn  through  its  awful  acres 
Trembled  and  thrilled  with  God! 

More  than  a  man  was  the  sower, 
Lured  by  a  man's  desire, 
Foi4  a  triune  Bride  walked  close  at  his  side- 
Dew  and  Dust  and  Fire! 

More  than  a  man  was  the  plowman, 
Shouting  his  gee  and  haw ; 
For  a  something  dim  kept  pace  with  him, 
And  ever  the  poet  saw ; 

Till  the  winds  of  the  cosmic  struggle 
Made  of  his  flesh  a  flute, 
To  echo  the  tune  of  a  whirlwind  rune 
Unto  the  million  mute. 


XI 

Son  of  the  Mother  of  mothers, 
The  womb  and  the  tomb  of  Life, 
With  Fire  and  Air  for  brothers 
And  a  clinging  Dream  for  a  wife; 
35 


The  Stranger  at  the  Gate 


Ever  the  soul  of  the  dreamer 

Strove  with  its  mortal  mesh, 

And  the  lean  flame  grew  till  it  fretted  through 

The  last  thin  links  of  flesh. 

Oh,  rending  the  veil  asunder, 
He  fled  to  mingle  again 
With  the  dread  Orestean  thunder, 
The  Lear  of  the  driven  rain ! 

XII 

Once  in  a  cycle  the  comet 

Doubles  its  lonesome  track. 

Enriched  with  the  tears  of  a  thousand  years, 

^Eschylus  wanders  back. 

Ever  inweaving,  returning, 

The  near  grows  out  of  the  far; 

And  Homer  shall  sing  once  more  in  a  swing 

Of  the  austere  Polar  Star. 

Then  what  of  the  lonesome  dreamer 
With  the  lean  blue  flame  in  his  breast? 
And  who  was  your  clown  for  a  day,  O  Town, 
The  strange,  unbidden  guest? 

XIII 

'Mid  glad  green  miles  of  tillage 
And  fields  where  cattle  graze; 
A  prosy  little  village, 
You  drowse  away  the  days. 

36 


John  G.  Neihardt 


And  yet — a  wakeful  glory 
Clings  round  you  as  you  doze; 
One  living,  lyric  story 
Makes  music  of  your  prose! 


37 


PRAIRIE  STORM  RUNE 


John  G.  Neihardt 


PRAIRIE  STORM  RUNE 
I 

THE  wild  bee  sips  at  the  heat-drugged  lips 
Of  the  passionless  lily  a-nod ; 
The  sunflowers  stare  through  the  hush  at  the  glare 
Of  the  face  of  their  tutelar  god,  and  the  hair 
Of  the  gossamer  glints  in  the  listless  air. 

Ragged  and  grim  on  the  parched  hill-rim, 
The  cottonwoods  sulk  in  gray: 
The  guiding  word  of  the  plowman  is  heard 
A  dream-thralled  mile  away — half  blurred, 
Wounding  the  calm  as  a  blunted  sword. 

Prophecy's  minister,  dolorous,  sinister, 
Hark  to  the  raincrow!     Incredible  story! 
For  the  clouds  of  fleece  like  banners  in  peace 
Pine  for  the  winds  of  glory.     Cease, 
Chanter  of  storm  in  the  ancient  peace! 

The  sick  land  lies  as  a  man  ere  he  dies, 
Loosing  his  grip  in  a  hush  profound ; 
Save  when  the  hidden  insects  scream 
In  jets  of  watery  sound  that  seem 
Taunts  of  thirst  in  a  fever  dream. 
41 


The  Stranger  at  the  Gate 


II 

What  mean  yon  cries  where  the  flat  world  dies 

In  hazy  rotundity — 

Tumult  a-swoon,  silence  a-croon, 

Lapped  in  profundity — bane  or  boon 

Or  only  the  drone  of  a  fever  rune? 

No  bird  sings — but  a  grasshopper's  wings 
Snap  in  the  meadow. 

On  the  rim  of  the  hill  the  cottonwoods  spill 
Stagnant  puddles  of  shadow;  and  still — 
The  air  is  quick  with  a  subtle  thrill ! 

A  cool,  fresh  puff!     The  meadows  are  rough, 
The  cottonwoods  whiten  and  whisper  together ! 
The  plowman  at  gaze,  knee-deep  in  the  maize, 
Judges  the  weather.     A  plow-horse  neighs, 
Faint  and  clear  as  a  horn  of  the  fays. 

Haunting  the  distance  with  taunting  insistence, 
Fiery  portents  and  mumblings  of  wonder! 
In  gardens  of  gloom,  walled  steep  with  doom, 
Strange  blue  buds  burst  in  thunder,  and  bloom 
Dizzily,  vividly,  gaudily,  lividly — 
Death-flowers  sown  in  a  cannon-gloom! 

Ill 

Lo,  on  a  height  hewn  sheer  out  of  night, 
Where  Mystery  labors, 

42 


John  G.  Neihardt 


Through  the  Hadean  heath  from  an  awe  beneath, 
A  sprouting  of  sabers  lean  from  the  sheath ! 
And  bursting  the  husk  of  the  travailing  dusk, 
The  world-old  crop  of  the  dragon's  teeth ! 

Banners  of  battle-might,  spear-glint  and  sword-light 

Over  the  dream-vague,  frowning  battalions! 

Hark,  the  hoarse  trumpets  bray!     Sensing  the  coming 

fray, 

Wraith-ridden,  thunder-hoofed  stallions  neigh 
Terror  into  the  glooming  day! 

A  death-hush  falls.     The  shadow  sprawls 
Sick  in  the  failing  noon. 
The  sun  flies  shorn,  aghast,  forlorn, 
Like  a  spectral  moon  surprised  at  morn. 
Deathly  green  is  the  meadow-sheen, 
Ghastly  green  the  corn. 

IV 

Hark — at  last — the  burst  of  the  blast — 
The  roar  of  the  charge  and  howls  of  defiance! 
The  cottonwoods,  grim  on  the  bleared  hill-rim, 
Grapple  with  giants  weird  and  dim — 
Titan  torses,  pedisonant  horses — 
Gods  and  demons  and  seraphim! 

Bloody  light  from  the  sword-slashed  night — 
Shuddering  darkness  after! 
Terrible  feet  trample  the  wheat ! 
43 


The  Stranger  at  the  Gate 


Olympian  laughter  overhead ! 
Over  the  roofs  rumble  the  hoofs, 
Over  the  graves  of  the  dead ! 

And  yet — somewhere  through  the  crystal  air 
A  golden  rain  is  swelling  the  oats, 
And  wild  doves  croon  to  the  splendid  noon 
Of  love  too  big  for  their  throats;  and  there 
Never  the  beat  of  terrible  feet — 
Somehow,  somewhere. 

Stark  in  the  rain  like  a  face  of  the  slain 

The  gray  land  stares  in  the  fitful  light. 

Is  it  a  glimmer  of  some  vague  story — 

The  corn's  green  might,  the  wheatfield's  shimmer, 

The  sunflower's  glory? 


The  war  wind  fails.     A  gray  cloud  trails 
Over  the  sodden  plain. 
Swift  and  bright,  the  arrowy  light 
Smites  the  rear  of  the  Rain  in  flight! 
And  lo,  on  high,  spanning  the  sky, 
The  arch  of  a  Victor's  might! 

Nothing  is  heard     .     .     .     Hark! — a  bird 
Calls  from  a  green-gloomed,  dripping  cover! 
Surely  wrath  rode  not  in  the  blast, 
But  some  inscrutable  Lover  passed, 
Aflame  with  the  lust  of  the  Dew  for  the  Dust, 
Out  of  the  Vast  into  the  Vast. 
44 


John   G.  Neihardt 


The  wild  bee  slips  from  the  housing  lips 

Of  the  lily  a-nod. 

Odors  sweet  in  the  humid  heat! 

A  glimmer  of  God  athwart  the  wheat! 

Aglow  with  prayer,  the  sunflowers  stare 

At  the  face  of  their  Paraclete. 


45 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 


John   G.  Neihardt 


THE  GHOSTLY  BROTHER 

ROTHER,  Brother  calling  me 

Like  a  distant  surfy  sea, 
Like  a  wind  that  moans  and  grieves 
All  night  long  about  the  eaves; 
Let  me  rest  a  little  span ; 
Long  I've  followed,  followed  fast; 
Now  I  wish  to  be  a  man, 
Disconnected  from  the  Vast! 
Let  me  stop  a  little  while, 
Feel  this  snug  world's  pulses  beat, 
Glory  in  a  baby's  smile, 
Hear  it  prattle  round  my  feet; 
Eat  and  sleep  and  love  and  live, 
Thankful  ever  for  the  dawn; 
Wanting  what  the  world  can  give — 
With  the  cosmic  curtains  drawn! 


Brother,  Brother,  break  the  gyves! 
Burst  the  prison,  Son  of  Power! 
Product  of  forgotten  lives, 
Seedling  of  the  final  flower! 
What  to  you  are  nights  and  days, 
Drifting  snow  or  rainy  flaw, 
49 


The  Stranger  at  the  Gate 


Love  or  hate  or  blame  or  praise — 
Heir  unto  the  Outer  Awe? 

I  am  breathless  from  the  flight 
Through  the  speed-cleft,  awful  night! 
Panting,  let  me  rest  awhile 
In   this   pleasant   asther-isle. 
Here,  content  with  little  things, 
How  the  witless  dweller  sings! 
Rears  his  brood  and  steers  his  plow, 
Nursing  at  the  breasts  of  Now. 
Here  the  meanest,  yea,  the  slave 
Claims  the  heirloom  of  a  grave! 
Oh,  this  little  world  is  blest — 
Brother,  Brother,  let  me  rest ! 

/  am  you  and  you  are  I! 
When  the  world  is  cherished  most, 
You  shall  hear  my  haunting  cry, 
See  me  rising  like  a  ghost. 
I  am  all  that  you  have  been, 
Are  not  now,  but  soon  shall  be! 
Thralled  awhile  by  dust  and  din — 
Brother,  Brother,  follow  me! 

'Tis  a  lonesome,  endless  quest; 
I  am  weary;  I  would  rest. 
Though  I  seek  to  fly  from  you, 
Like  a  shadow,  you  pursue. 


John   G.  Neihardt 


Do  I  love  ?     You  share  the  kiss, 
Leaving  only  half  the  bliss. 
Do  I  conquer?     You  are  there, 
Claiming  half  the  victor's  share. 
When  the  night  shades  fray  and  lift, 
'Tis  your  veiled  face  lights  the  rift. 
In  the  sighing  of  the  rain, 
Your  voice  goads  me  like  a  pain. 
Happy  in  a  narrow  trust, 
Let  me  serve  the  lesser  will 
One  brief  hour — and  then,  to  dust! 
Oh,  the  dead  are  very  still! 

Brother,  Brother,  follow  hence! 
Ours  the  wild,  unflagging  speed! 
Through  the  outer,  walls  of  sense, 
Follow,  follow  where  I  lead! 
Love  and  hate  and  grief  and  fear — 
'Tis  the  geocentric  dream! 
Only  shadows  linger  here, 
Cast  by  the  eternal  Gleam! 
Follow,  follow,  follow  fast! — > 
Somewhere  out  of  Time  and  Place, 
You  shall  lift  the  veil  at  last, 
You  shall  look  upon  my  face! 
Look  upon  my  face  and  die, 
Solver  of  the  Mystery! 
I  am  you  and  you  are  I — 
Brother,  Brother,  follow  me! 


The  Stranger  at  the  Gate 


THE  POET'S  ADVICE 
I 

\7'OU  wish  to  be  a  poet,  Little  Man? 

•*•       More  verses  limping  'neath  their  big  intent? 
Well — one  must  be  a  poet  if  one  can ! 
But  do  you  know  the  way  the  others  went? 

Who  buys  of  gods  must  pay  a  heavy  fee. 
The  World  loves  not  its  dreamers  overmuch. 
And  he  who  longs  to  drink  at  Castaly, 
Must  hobble  there  upon  a  broken  crutch. 

One  sins  by  being  different,   it  seems; 
At  least  so  in  our  human  commonweal. 
Who  goes  to  market  with  his  minted  dreams, 
Must  buy  and  bear  the  Cross  of  the  Ideal. 

Lo,  tall  amid  the  forest,  blackened,  grim, 
The   lightning-riven   pine! — God-kissed   was  he. 
How  all  the  little  beeches  jeer  at  him, 
Safe  in  their  snug  arrays  of  greenery! 

And  who  shall  call  the  little  beeches  mad  ? 
Not  I,  who  know  how  big  are  little  acts. 
52 


John   G.  Neihardt 


Want  what  you  have,  and  cherish,  O  my  Lad, 
The  downright,  foursquare,  geometric  facts! 


II 

But — Oh,  the  ancient  glory  in  your  eyes! 
How  bursts  a  dazzling  wonder  all  around! 
Wild   tempests  of  ineffable  surprise — 
All  color,  dream  and  sound ! 

You  lip  the  awful  flagons  of  old  time, 
And  mystic  apples  lure  you  to  the  bite! 
Blown  down  the  dizzy  winds  of  woven  rhyme, 
Dead  women  come  and  woo  you  in  the  night! 

You  tread   the  myrtle  woods  past  time  and   place, 
Where  shadows  flit  and  splendid  echoes  croon ; 
And  through  the  boughs  some  fatal  storied  face 
Breathes  muted  music  like  a  Summer  moon! 

I  know  the  secret  altars  where  you  kneel. 
I  know  what  lips  fling  fever  in  your  kiss. 
That  sorry  little  drab  to  whom  you  steal 
Is  Queen  Semiramis! 

The  Bacchanalia  of  the  sap  now  reigns! 
Priapic  fires  burn  yonder  bough  with  blooms! 
Lo,  goat-songs  warbled  from  the  vineyard  fanes! 
Lo,  Venus-nipples  in  the  apple-glooms! 
53 


The  Stranger  at  the  Gate 


Ah,  who  is  older  than  the  vernal  surge, 
And  who  is  wiser  than  the  sap  a-thrill? 
Forever,  he  who  feels  the  lyric  urge 
Shall  do  its  will! 

—Your    rhymes? — Some    nimbler    footed    have    been 

worse. 

What  broken  trumpet  echoes  from  the  van 
Where  march  the  cohorts  of  Immortal  Verse! 
Well — one  must  be  a  poet  if  one  can. 


54 


John  G.  Neihardt 


MORNING  GLORIES 

DISTANT  as  a  dream's  flight 
Lay  an  eerie  plain, 
Where  the  weary  moonlight 
Swooned  into  a  rnoan ; 
Wailing    after    dead    seed, 
Came  the  ghost  of  rain; 
There  was  I  a  wild  weed 
Growing  all  alone. 

Like  a  doubted  story 
Came  the  thought  of  day; 
God  and  all  his  glory 
Lingered  otherwhere, 
Busy  with  the  dawn-thrill 
Many  dreams  away. 
Could  a  little  weed's  will 
Fling  so  far  a  prayer? 

Oh,  the  sudden  wonder! 
(Is  a  prayer  so  fleet?) 
From  the  desert  under, 
Morning  glories  grew! 
Twined  me,  bound  me 
With  caressing  feet! 
55 


The  Stranger  at  the  Gate 


Wove  song  round  me — 
Pink,   white,   blue ! 

As  a  fog  is  rifted 
By  the  eager  breeze, 
Darkness  broke  and  lifted, 
Tossing  like  a  sea! 
Lo,  the  dawn  was  flowering 
Through  the  maple  trees! 
Oh — and  you  were  showering 
Kisses  over  me! 


John   G.  Neihardt 


THE  LYRIC 

GIVE  the  good  gaunt  horse  the  rein, 
Sting  him  with  the  steel ! 
Set  his  nervous  thews  astrain, 
Let  him  feel  the  winner's  pain, 
Master-hand  and  -heel! 
Fling  him,  hurl  him  at  the  wire 
Though  he  sob  and  bleed! 
Play  upon  him  as  a  lyre — 
Speed  is  music  set  on  fire — 
Oh,  the  splendid  steed! 

Hurl  the  lyric  swift  and  true 

Like  a  shaft  of  Doom! 

Like  the  lightning's  blade  of  blue 

Letting  all  the  heavens  through, 

And  shuddering  back  to  gloom ! 

Like  the  sudden  river-thaw, 

Like  a  sabered  throng, 

Give  it  fury  clothed  in  awe — 

Speed  is  half  the  lyric  law — 

Oh,  the  mighty  song! 


57 


The  Stranger  at  the  Gate 


GLAUCUS 

LAUCUS,  the  fisher,  sat  his  tossing  craft: 
The  sun  was  dying  on  the  Roman  lake, 
And,   save  where   Day,    departing,   grimly   laughed, 
The  skies  were  dim,  as  mourning  for  his  sake. 
Safe  was  it  for  the  saucy  fish  to  take 
Its  bite  unnoticed;  nor  did  Glaucus  see 
The  boiling  clouds  that  dogged  the  fierce  winds'  wake: 
Far  other  stormier,  gloomier  thoughts  had  he 
Than  how  his  craft  went  mad  upon  the  dizzy  sea. 

"  Howl,  O  mad  Winds!     You  can  no  stronger  blow 
Than  blows  despairing  passion  in  my  brain ! 
What  care  I  where  my  futile  soul  may  go, 
Since  our  two  souls  must  evermore  be  twain? 
I  am  the  poor  rough  toiler  of  the  main, 
A  god's  desires  in  a  slave's  bent  form. 
Full  many  a  valiant  hero  in  her  vein 
Rebreathes,  and  unborn  kings  in  her  are  warm !  " 
He  spoke,   the   while   he   breathed   the    frenzy   of   the 
storm. 

"  Some  hand  uncalloused  shall  unbind  her  zone. 
Some  soft,  unweathered  cheek  shall  she  caress. 
She  is  a  god's  soft  song,  and  I  a  moan. 
Her  veins  run  day,  and  mine  the  dumb  distress 

58 


John   G.  Neihardt 


Of  dusk;  yet  I  have  felt  her  bosom  press 
Throughout  the  night  against  my  peasant  breast, 
And  disenchanting  dawn  hath  left  me  less, 
Less  than  a  memory  of  what  mocked  my  rest." 
— Now  Night  had  frowned  the  last  sad  glory  from 
the  west. 

The  sea  crouched  snarling  like  an  ambushed  beast, 

And  hissing,  crashing,  sprang  upon  the  bark ! 

Still  from  the  mad  abysm  of  the  east 

Debouched  the  howling  cohorts  of  the  Dark ! 

Nor  lulled   the  cloud-winged  winds   that   they   might 

hark 

How  gasped  the  struggling  fisher  in  the  sea. 
Meanwhile  in  drowning  Glaucus  flashed  a  spark 
Of  that  swift  flame  that  thrills  infinity, 
And  through  him  ran  a  voice — "Thou  art  a  deity!" 

The  pang  of  passing  pinched  his  chilling  frame; 

The  grin  of  death  sat  sullen  on  his  face ; 

But  o'er  his  soul  a  thrill  exultant  came! 

Within  the  crystal  glories  of  the  place 

He  saw  his  form  reflected,  full  of  grace, 

As  though  the  sinuous  beauty  of  the  storm 

Had  breathed  itself  in  one  of  mortal  race ! 

Then  as  the  god  welled  in  him,  wrild  and  warm, 

Cleaving  the  shaken  deeps,  he  mounted  in  the  storm! 


59 


The  Stranger  at  the  Gate 


To  him  the  thunder  was  a  pigmy's  shout. 
Above  the  roar  of  wind  and  wave  he  cried: 
"  Blow  till  the  frenzied  Earth  shall  toss  about 
Again  with  Titan-pangs!     I  ride,  I  ride, 
God  of  the  Wind  and  Master  of  the  Tide! 
Burst  from  ^^Eolus'  careful  hand  and  shake 
The  ancient  dusk  and  silence  that  abide 
About  the  world's  end,  O  ye  Winds !     Awake ! 
Breathe  terror  through  the  skies  for  poor  mad  Glaucus' 
sake!" 

As  some  brain  with  a  morbid  dream  distraught, 

All  night  the  Cosmos  trembled  with  the  rush 

Of  storm,  that,  like  the  darkling,  flaring  thought, 

Found  peace  in  self-destruction.     Morning's  blush 

Lured  Eos  up  the  scarped  east  through  a  hush. 

Afloat  upon  the  dawn-stream,  Glaucus  knew 

The  soft  Olympian  ecstasies  that  gush 

From  hearts  forever  young.     The  world  was  new; 

Blue  was  the  sea  beneath  him,  the  sky  about  him  blue. 

Upon  a  couch  of  golden  mist  reclined 

The     new-born     Wind-God,      Glaucus.     Near     him 

crooned 

Some  unseen  Zephyr  like  a  soul  that  pined ; 
Its  theme  was  love,  its  notes  were  sleepy-tuned. 
Then  grew  on  him  the  soft  nights,  argent-mooned, 
When,  as  a  mortal,  he  had  crept  anigh 
Where    she,     his     Princess,     walked,     the     while     he 

swooned 

60 


John   G.  Neihardt 


With  the  voluptuous  pleasure  of  his  eye. 
— The  unseen  Zephyr  sang;  the  Wind  God  heaved  a 
sigh. 

The  lazy  day  strolled  up  the  golden  steep. 
A  tender  vision  thrilled  the  drowsed  god's  brain. 
There  came  an  amorous  woman  in  his  sleep, 
Wide-armed  and  panting  as  with  gentle  pain. 
He  knew  the  face,  the  form  and  the  sweet  strain 
That  was  her  voice:  "  O  Glaucus,  I  am  thine! 
Teach  me  to  die,  to  leave  the  flesh  and  vein 
That  make  a  prison!     Oh,  that  thou  wert  mine!  " 
The   god   awoke:   the   day   still   climbed   the   long   in 
cline. 

The  amorous  voice  still  echoed  in  his  heart. 
Beneath  his  cloud  he  bade  the  swift  winds  blow. 
Scarce  did  the  golden  fleece-couch  seem  to  start, 
When  spread  a  palace  garden  far  below: 
The  languorous  palms,  the  flashing  founts — and  Oh ! 
There  slept  the  being  of  his  sweetest  thought! 
So  summoned  he  the  various  winds  that  blow 
Sweet-burdened  with  the  subtle  incense  caught 
From  Summer  isles  where  suns  their  softest  wiles  have 
wrought : 

And  in  the  sleeper's  blood  he  bade  them  creep 
To  brew  warm  passion  in  her  pulse,  and  sing, 
Weaving  their  music  dreamlike  through  her  sleep, 
The  love-begetting  amour  of  their  king. 
61 


The  Stranger  at  the  Gate 


Then  close  he  crept  unto  her,  whispering 
Words  of  immortal  meaning:     "  Come  with  me 
And  I  shall  make  thee  deathless!     From  the  spring 
That  laves  Olympus  thou  shalt  drink,  and  be 
Bride  of  the  boundless  Air  and  mistress  of  the  Sea! 

"  All  night  our  souls  shall  twine,  while  Dian's  star 

Pours  out  Elysium  on  our  fleecy  sleep. 

And  we  shall  sight  the  sunrise  from  afar, 

And  we  shall  thrill  to  see  Apollo  leap 

Out  of  the  Deep  to  plunge  into  the  Deep! 

The  Horses  of  the  Storm  shall  stoop  to  thee, 

And  thou  shalt  back  them,  queenlike,  and  shalt  sweep 

Into  the  unlocked  depths  of  Mystery — 

Bride  of  the  boundless  Air  and  mistress  of  the  Sea!  " 

What  said  the  sleeper's  soul  ?     Ah,  who  can  know 
What  fond,  unspoken  vows  were  plighted  then? 
Did  not  the  wind  that  day  more  gently  blow, 
And  was  the  air  not  scented  sweet,  as  when 
Dates  burst  to  make  the  desert  glad  again  ? 
Ah,  thankless  task,  to  urge  a  modern  shell 
To  croon  into  the  ears  of  hurried  men 
The  music  of  the  wonder  that  befell ! 
For  cold  her  form  was  found,     The  rest  the  peasants 
tell. 


62 


John  G.  Neihardt 


MONEY 

A  SON  of  Adam  dug  beside  the  way. 
"Why,   Brother,    do  you   dig?"    I   stopped   to 

ask. 

Standing  at  stoop  and  pausing  in  his  task, 
From  dreary  eyes  he  wiped  the  sweat  away. 
"  I  work  for  money."     "  What  is  money,  pray?  " 
"  A  foolish  question,  this  you  come  to  ask!  " 
Yet  in  that  gray  and  worry-haunted  mask 
At  hide-and-seek  I  saw  my  query  play. 

"  It  is  the  graven  symbol  of  your  ache," 

I  said,  " — the  minted  meaning  of  your  blood  ; 

And  he  who  works  not,  robs  you  when  he  buys ! 

You  are  the  vassal  of  a  thing  you  make !  " 

I  left  him  staring  hard  upon  the  mud, 

The  glimmer  of  a  portent  in  his  eyes. 


The  Stranger  at  the  Gate 


THE  RED  WIND  COMES! 

TOO  long  mere  words  have  thralled  us.     Let  us 
think! 

Oh  ponder,  are  we  "  free  and  equal  "  yet  ? 
That  July  bombast,  writ  with  blood  for  ink, 
Is  blurred  with  floods  of  unavailing  sweat! 

An  empty  sound  we  won  from  Royal  George! 
Yea,  till  the  last  great  fight  of  all  is  won, 
A  sentimental  show  was  Valley  Forge, 
A  mawkish,  tawdry  farce  was  Lexington! 

No  longer  blindfold  Justice  reigns;  but  leers 
A  barefaced,  venal  strumpet  in  her  stead ! 
The  stolen  harvests  of  a  hundred  years 
Are  lighter  than  a  stolen  loaf  of  bread ! 

O  pious  Nation,  holding  God  in  awe, 
Where  sacred  human  rights  are  duly  priced ! 
Where  men  are  beggared  in  the  name  of  Law, 
Where  alms  are  given  in  the  name  of  Christ ! 

The  Country  of  the  Free? — O  wretched  lie! 
The  Country  of  the  Brave? — Yea,  let  it  be! 
One  more  good  fight,  O  Brothers,  ere  we  die, 
And  this  shall  be  the  Country  of  the  Free! 


John  G.  Neihardt 


What!     Are  we  cowards?     Are  we  doting  fools? 
Who  built  the  cities,  fructified  the  lands? 
We  make  and  use,  but  do  we  own  the  tools? 
Who  robbed  us  of  the  product  of  our  hands? 

A  tiger-hearted  Tyrant  crowned  with  Law, 
Whose  flesh  is  custom  and  whose  soul  is  greed ! 
Ubiquitous,  a  nothing  clothed  in  awe, 
We  sweat  for  him  and  bleed! 

Religion  follows  proudly  in  his  train! 
Daft  Freedom  raves  her  fealty  at  his  side! 
Surviving  kingship,  he  eludes  the  vain, 
Misguided  dagger  of  the  regicide! 

Yea,  and  we  serve  this  Insult  to  our  God! 
Gnawing  our  crusts,  we  render  Caesar  toll! 
We  labor  with  the  back  beneath  his  rod, 
His  shackles  on  the  soul! 

He  is  a  System — wrought  for  human  hogs! 
So  long  as  we  shall  hug  a  hoary  Lie, 
And  gulp  the  vocal  swill  of  demagogues, 
The  Fat  shall  rule  the  sty! 

Behold  potential  plenty  for  us  all! 
Behold  the  pauper  and  the  plutocrat! 
Behold  the  signs  prophetic  of  thy  fall, 
O  Dynast  of  the  Fat ! 

65 


The  Stranger  at  the  Gate 


Lo,  even  now  the  haunting,  spectral  scrawl! 
Lo,  even  now  the  beat  of  hidden  wings! 
The  ghosts  of  millions  throng  thy  banquet-hall, 
O  guiltiest  and  last  of  all  the  kings! 

Beware  the  Furies  stirring  in  the  gloom ! 

They  mutter  from  the  mines,  the  mills,  the  slums! 

No  lies  shall  stay  or  mitigate  thy  doom — 

The  Red  Wind  comes! 


66 


John   G.  Neihardt 


CRY  OF  THE  PEOPLE 

TREMBLE  before  thy  chattels, 
Lords  of  the  scheme  of  things ! 
Fighters  of  all  earth's  battles, 
Ours  is  the  might  of  kings ! 
Guided  by  seers  and  sages, 
The  world's  heart-beat  for  a  drum, 
Snapping  the  chains  of  ages, 
Out  of  the  night  we  come ! 

Lend  us  no  ear  that  pities! 

Offer  no  almoner's  hand! 

Alms  for  the  builders  of  cities! 

When  will  you  understand? 

Down  with  your  pride  of  birth 

And  your  golden  gods  of  trade! 

A  man  is  worth  to  his  mother,  Earth, 

All  that  a  man  has  made! 

We  are  the  workers  and  makers ! 

We  are  no  longer  dumb! 

Tremble,  O  Shirkers  and  Takers! 

Sweeping  the  earth — we  come ! 

Ranked  in  the  world-wide  dawn, 

Marching  into  the  day ! 

The  night  is  gone  and  the  sword  is  drawn 

And  the  scabbard  is  thrown  away! 


The  Stranger  at  the  Gate 


EXTRACTS    FROM    APPRECIATIONS    OF 
"  MAN-SONG  " 

"  There  is  a  rugged  Saxon  strength  and  a  vigorous 
originality  in  the  poetry  of  John  Neihardt,  that  place 
him  in  the  very  front  rank  of  American  poets.  The 
verse  of  his  Man-Song  seems  to  have  been  hammered 
out  of  iron,  rather  than  chiseled  or  molded  from  any 
softer  material." — The  Literary  Digest. 

"  The  entire  work  throbs  with  life  as  an  opal  with 
color,  and  to  read  it  is  like  playing  with  fire — or  a 
naked  heart." — Chicago  Record-Herald. 

"  No  weakling  could  so  chant  of  man  in  his  rela 
tion  to  man,  to  woman,  to  Nature,  to  God.  His  mel 
odies  pour  forth  with  the  irresistible  force  and  stern 
music  of  a  mountain  torrent.  Neihardt  has  blazed  his 
own  trail  and  with  the  divine  fire." — Baltimore  Sun. 

"  One  thing  at  least  is  established  beyond  the  likeli 
hood  of  controversy — the  author's  right  to  be  ranked 
among  the  very  foremost  poets  of  the  younger  genera 
tion. — Verbal  magic  and  pictorial  suggestiveness  that 
are  characteristic  of  great  lyrical  work." — Brooklyn 
Eagle. 

"  John  G.  Neihardt  is  a  poet  unqualified,  unless  it 
be  by  the  adjective,  great." — San  Francisco  Call. 

68 


John   G.  Neihardt 


"  Among  the  few  American  poets  of  to-day,  there  is 
none  more  gifted  with  the  seer's  art  than  John  G. 
Neihardt."— Orange  (N.  J.)  Chronicle. 

"  The  rare  hand  for  devising  arresting  epithets, 
which  distinguishes  Stephen  Phillips  at  his  best,  is  Mr. 
Neihardt's  too;  and  now  and  then  his  verses  roll  out 
as  sonorously  as  Marlowe's  mighty  line. — In  writing 
blank  verse,  that  noble  English  measure,  he  is  a  crafts 
man  of  unquestioned  skill." — H.  L.  Mencken  in 
Smart,  Set. 

"  The  most  striking  thing  about  '  Man-Song '  is  its 
amazing  growth  in  various  directions  (as  compared 
with  'A  Bundle  of  Myrrh')  but  chiefly  in  lyrical 
power  and  artistic  finish.  There  are  a  half  dozen 
lyrics  in  this  collection  that  are  perfect  verbal  magic — 
they  are  irresistible.  But  this  is  not  all;  beneath  the 
wonderful  singing  quality  are  form,  compression,  re 
serve  force,  meaning;  the  spontaneity  now  is  that  ap 
parent  artlessness,  which  is  the  triumph  of  lyrical  art." 

— Albany  Argus. 

"  There  is  an  awe-inspiring  element  in  this  work." — 
— Van  Nordens  Magazine. 

"  There  is  in  this  volume  a  striking  note  of  origi 
nality  and  power ;  the  strong  firm  voice  of  a  poetic  per 
sonality. — Neihardt  has  the  poet's  power  to  concentrate 
whole  pages  of  prose  in  one  flashlight  sentence." 

— Duluth  Herald. 

"  His  imaginative  power,  his  acuteness  in  simile 
and  his  authentic  passion,  stir  one  as  no  mediocre 
writer  can." — Boston  Advertiser. 

69 


The  Stranger  at  the  Gate 


11  Here  is  real  poetry,  virile  and  vital  to  a  degree,  a 
veritable  man-cry. — Mr.  Neihardt's  strength  goes  hand 
in  hand  with  beauty,  the  beauty  of  stormy  sunsets  and 
thunderous  seas  and  of  wonderful  women  in  old  for 
gotten  cities.  One  puts  down  his  book  thrilled  and 
exhilarated." — Theodosia  Garrison  in  Boston  Herald. 

"  Mr.  Neihardt's  work  is  wholesomely  beautiful, 
often  with  a  robustious  exuberance,  now  and  then 
striking  a  stronger  note  of  tenderness.  By  escaping 
the  fallacy  that  it  is  American  to  write  about  Indians 
and  modern  to  write  about  railroads,  he  has  made 
poems  modern  and  American  in  the  only  true  sense 
upon  themes  either  ancient  or  timeless." — The  Book 
man. 

"  It  is  Walt  Whitman  observing  every  rule  of  rhe 
toric,  rhyme  and  rhythm,  with  many  passages  of  lyric 
sweetness  of  which  Whitman  knew  nothing.  There 
are  beautiful  thought-pictures,  dreams  that  seem  real 
ities,  visions  such  as  the  old  prophets  had." — 
— Nebraska  State  Journal. 

1  The  lyric  intensity  of  a  naive  and  passionate  human 
voice." — New  York  Times. 

"  .  .  .  At  the  age  of  thirty,  four  years  after  the 
issuance  of  *  A  Bundle  of  Myrrh,'  and  two  years 
after  '  Man-Song,'  Neihardt  seems  to  be  firmly  es 
tablished  among  the  living  poets.  .  .  .  He  has 
written  some  of  the  finest  stanzas  that  have  blessed  a 
prosaic  age.  .  .  .  His  work  should  take  its  place 
with  the  best  poetry  of  his  time." 

— Tacoma    (Wash.)    Ledger. 
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